"Captain Billington-Smith?" repeated the Superintendent. "You're on the wrong scent there, Mr. Harding. The Captain left the house at ten-forty-five, as you might see by my notes."
"Yes, I did see it," said Harding. "But I should like those inquiries to be set on foot all the same, please."
"What about the foreign young lady, sir?" asked the Sergeant.
"Somehow I don't think so, Sergeant. We shall have to bear her in mind as a possible suspect, of course, but she doesn't interest me much so far."
"The butler, sir?"
"Extremely unlikely. We have discovered no motive."
"This is all very well," interrupted the Superintendent, ,but what are you driving at, that's what I'd like to know?"
"This," said Harding. "That, at present, investigation into the motives and movements of the various suspects is not getting us any forrarder, because though anyone might have done it, there is no proof that any one of them did. Therefore we must change our plan of attack. Now there are just two pieces of evidence which seem to he totally unrelated to any of the people I've mentioned. One is the slip of paper with the word There scrawled on it, which was found under the General's hand; the other is the fact that there were no finger-prints on the handle of the safe."
The Superintendent looked him over with tolerant amusement. "I thought you'd come to the conclusion, Harding, that this wasn't a murder with robbery thrown in?"
"I had. But I am no longer so sure of that."
"Well, if there weren't any finger-prints on the safe handle — which there weren't, because I was there when our man took them — I don't see what you want to start thinking about robbery for, and that's a fact."
"But there should have been finger-prints," said Harding quietly.
"How do you mean, should have been?" demanded the Superintendent. "Whose finger-prints?"
"The General's," replied Harding. "At eleven o'clock he opened that safe to put something in it, and according to Mrs. Halliday he was not wearing gloves."
"You mean," said the Sergeant slowly, "you mean that someone had hold of that handle after the General touched it? And, what's more, wiped it carefully afterwards?"
"Of course," said Harding.
Chapter Fourteen
At a half past ten Inspector Harding got his car out of the garage at the Crown and started to drive to the police station, where he was to pick up the Sergeant. As he emerged from the inn-yard, sounding his horn, a damsel in a severe linen coat and skirt, and a shirt-blouse with a tie, drew hastily back on to the kerbstone. Inspector Harding recognised Miss Fawcett, and promptly put on his brakes.
"Hullo!" said Dinah. "It's you!"
"Hullo!" returned Harding. "Are you escaping from the clutches of the Inquisition, or just shopping?"
"Shopping. If it weren't for a little matter concerning a licence for my wireless I could face you with a limpid conscience."
He laughed. "Wireless licences don't come under my jurisdiction, you'll be relieved to hear."
"I didn't think they would. I expect you're too big a pot," said Miss Fawcett naively.
"How nice of you!" he said, with a twinkle. "I'm glad you're not escaping."
"Couldn't if I wanted to. The dam' car's just died on me," said Dinah gloomily. "She was giving trouble all the way here — its a rotten little runabout Arthur used to let Fay drive — and she finally conked out in the middle of the High Street. Like a fool, I let the engine stop when I was in a shop, and of course, she wouldn't start again. So there she is, complete Wreck of the Hesperus, waiting for the garage people to take her away and burn her, for all I care. Look here, I mustn't stop: I've got to catch a bus to the station."
"Wait a minute, I'll take you to the station, if you promise not to vanish on the first train."
"Thanks awfully," said Dinah. "I call that handsome I'm not doing a bunk, I swear. All I want to do is to catch Peacock with the big car, so that I can get home. He's gone to meet Mr. Tremlowe on the ten-fifty, you know."
Harding leaned across to open the car door for her. "If that's your reason for going to the station, why bother:' he said. "Won't you let me drive you back to the Grange'."
"Would you mind?" asked Dinah doubtfully.
"No," replied Inspector Harding. "I shouldn't mind at all."
"Well, it's frightfully decent of you, but I ought to warn you that I've got one or two parcels to pick up. I don't want to waste your time."
"Where are these parcels?" inquired Harding, letting the clutch out.
"Waiting for me at Dove's, the big linen-draper's in the High Street. Fay feels she must wear mourning, and as she's only got one black day frock, I've had to get her some on approval. I call it rather rotten, myself, but she's hot on the conventions."
"All right, we'll go and collect them, and they can share the dickey with Sergeant Nethersole. We've got to collect him too. Will you direct me to this shop you want?"
"Straight down the High Street. I'll tell you when to stop." Miss Fawcett settled herself at her ease beside the Inspector, and added chattily: "Do you mind if I ask you something?"
"Not at all. What is it?"
"Well, do you really wear a god-forsaken badge under the lapel of your coat, and show it to anybody who wants to know who you are?"
"No, of course I don't. I'm not an American!" protested Harding.
"Oh, is it only American detectives who do? I didn't know, but in films they always have hidden badges, and I was wondering whether it was correct. Whoa, that's the shop, just over there."
Ten minutes later, outside the police station, Harding was resolutely avoiding the Sergeant's eye. The Sergeant surveyed him with mingled pain and disapproval, and clambered in amongst the dress-boxes in the dickey. There was no doubt about it, the Inspector was taking a lot of interest in that Miss Fawcett. It wasn't what the Sergeant had expected of an inspector from Scotland Yard, and while he hadn't got anything against the young lady, at the same time it didn't seem to him the right thing at all.
Such considerations did not appear to weigh with Inspector Harding, and the Sergeant, as he carefully balanced one of the boxes on his knees, was grieved to hear him assure Miss Fawcett that it did not matter if Mr. Tremlowe arrived at the Grange before he did.
Then Harding started the car again, and the Sergeant heard no more. He was able, however, to study Miss Fawcett's charming profile, every time she turned her head to speak to Harding, and from time to time he had a fleeting glimpse of Harding's face as well, as the Inspector glanced down at his lively companion. It seemed to the Sergeant that they were hitting it off a fair treat.
He was quite right. Miss Fawcett, never one to be afflicted by shyness, was talking to the Inspector about himself.
"If it weren't for the general grisliness of the whole business," she remarked confidentially, "I think I should rather enjoy seeing a real sleuth at work. It's quite an eye-opener, because till yesterday I'd only met one detective in all my life. He was a man they sent up from the police station when a burglar broke into our flat in town, and pinched a brooch of my mother's, and a couple of plated entree-dishes. He was definitely sub-human. The detective, I mean. I don't mind telling you that I was rather hostile about you before arrived."
"You didn't show it," said Harding. "I thought were very charming, and most efficient."
"Well, of course I saw you weren't in the least noisome as soon as I set eyes on you," replied Dinah candidly. "As a matter of fact, I never should have guessed you were a detective if I hadn't been told."